


The more things change, the more they stay the same

by sechar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Crossover, Gen, HP: EWE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:32:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6958651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sechar/pseuds/sechar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry was a wizard, no matter which world he was in.<br/>He wasn't currently in the same world.<br/>Didn't seem to mean that he didn't have shit happen to him, mainly of the magical variety (but the taxes, jeesh).<br/>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br/>In which Harry is still a wizard - but not Harry Dresden . . . despite being in the right universe for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Filling In The Blanks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/444542) by [Abby_Ebon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon). 



Harry was liking this universe. It was certainly better than what some options were (Hermione's imagination had supplied his own plenty of fodder).

It had magic as part of it already, there was modern civilisation, and there weren't any wars involving the entirety of the world. Sure, magic wasn't known by the majority of the people living on the planet, but you couldn't have everything you wanted in life.

Harry was enjoying wandering around here; seeing the sights, meeting exciting people/creatures/beings, getting lost every now and again, occasionally doing a bit of vigilante-justice where necessary. It was good.

* * *

It didn't really last. (He wasn't that surprised. Prophecies seemed to put a beacon on people, making it that much harder to blend in and just be one of the crowd.)

He was backpacking in Spain when it happened, enjoying being a tourist and with absolutely no demands on his time.

And then he ran into this . . . vampire-y demon-y  _thing._ He's not gonna be more specific than that, because he doesn't really know what it is.

It had taken one look at him - it was human looking then - and had pretty much just lunged at him, mouth shrieking blue murder, claws outstretched, and the most awful stink that he'd nearly gagged (years of potions was the only thing that had prevented that from happening, but it had still been a close call).

His reflexes were pretty decent - Quidditch, the war, work - so he was able to avoid it and not get snagged on the whirling mass of claws, growls, and hatred.

_Well, it was a bit much to ask to_ never  _be attacked in a word with magic._ "Oi, ugly!" Harry yelled, taking a quick glance at their surroundings. It was night, there were only a few lights on, and the one person he saw was quickly going in the opposite direction. Good; there'd be less need to hold back without any innocents around. "What do you want with me?" The adrenaline's flowing, his brain is waking up, and he feels so incredibly  _alive_ with battle (he misses it, and hates it - it's the only time outside of flying that he doesn't feel half asleep in this world).

"Wizard . . ." The creature hissed venomously, sinuously creeping closer to him. Harry'd find the whole 'on all fours' thing a bit more freaky if he hadn't been forced to put up with Voldemort and the associated shitstorm that had been. On a scale of Cornish pixies to Nagini, he'd give it about a Blast-Ended Skrewt; a bit scary initially, but not too bad once you knew the horror areas.

"Death to all wizards," the thing lunged, trailing verbal and literal bile. Harry was slightly more caught up on it's words - and he was pretty sure he'd heard them correctly, but you never knew; between the language barrier and accents, it could actually be congratulating him or something. Unlikely, given the whole attack thing, but still possible - than it's actions. He apparated out of the way, further down the street but still within the thing's sightline. Couldn't have it turning on innocents just because it was frustrated, after all.

The thing didn't take his sudden vanishing very well. It seemed frustrated, angry, and there might gave been a bit of fear in there as well. It screeched into the night air.  _Okay, that was shiver-inducing._

By the time the thing caught sight of him, he was ready to battle it. Transfiguring his clothes to be more durable may mean he lost a bit of flexibility from the fabric, but it was certainly needed.  _Apparition is going to be my ace with this thing's speed._

Harry readied himself, and joined the battle.

* * *

It wasn't terribly hard once he adjusted to the thing - it's movements and speed were definitely different to what he'd faced off against before. And in the end, he'd gone back to the old standby: burning shit. (If that hadn't worked, he'd likely have tried to drown it - opposites and all that - but he didn't think there would be many completely fireproof creatures out there, even with the weirdness this world was already showing him.

The thing had burned, all right. It had gone up in flames like it had been soaked in petrol, and the sounds and smells of it burning- well, whilst he knew it would work, he'd prefer to have done it a different way.

But that wasn't his main concern. His main concerns were how he'd been recognised as a wizard on sight, what the hell that thing was, and why he had been attacked by it when he had been doing shit all to the thing. Hell, he hadn't even realised it was there until it had revealed itself.

_Recon it is._

Harry vanished from sight, the only proof that there had been a battle swiftly washed away by the sudden, non-seasonal shower that drenched the area. Spain was off his travelling list indefinitely, and he needed to get information. Now.

* * *

Italy wasn't much better.

He was half tempted to visit the Vatican for kicks (and, alright, because Hermione had been just that much of an influence) but he'd held off. For all he knew, the Catholic Church might not have the whole 'thou shalt not suffer a witch' thing here and have no issues with magic; or they could just be hypocrites and use it anyways. Priests, 'nuff said.

There were so many people there in the areas he wanted to visit - runes were an itch with him now, and he really wanted to know what dimensional differences there were - and they seemed to crowd like they had no issues with having strangers right there. Okay, he kinda got that (he was  _never_ getting on the Tube in rush hour again, no matter what anyone said. He'd rather disillusion himself and be stuck to the outside then be on the inside in that kind of crush) but it wasn't like he was fine with it himself.

A wall to his back, limited exits, and an easy way to draw his wand - the bare minimum he required to relax his guard. Not very mentally healthy, but incredibly physically healthy in the long run.

And then it had all- turned to shit is an exaggeration, but it certainly hadn't been like getting a free box of chocolates - started to go wrong.

You get the feeling that something is gong wrong when a massive guy (built like a brick shithouse, honestly) dressed all in black and somehow not feeling the temperature strides up behind you, booms out "Remove yourself and your glamour immediately, or there shall be dire consequences," like something out of a particularly trippy opera, and then glares until you get yourself outside.

. . . Which on the Harry Potter scale of 'Oh Shit' isn't ranking that high. It's definitely trying to get up there, but hasn't quite hit the mark.

That the guy was unseen by the people around them was immaterial. If he was dressed like that and speaking like that he wouldn't want people to see him either.

So Harry did what any sensible person would do: he got out of there and didn't alarm the tourists/tour guides/pick pockets as best he could. And on reaching outside, he started moving. (Away from the city, he wasn't that keen on trashing Rome.)

The . . . being? seemed to get the picture since he certainly wasn't running his mouth off now. Matter of fact, he seemed to be having a bit of difficulty with the crowds. Didn't stop him from catching up to Harry soon, but it certainly warmed the cockles of his heart, even if only briefly.

"Remove your glamour, cur, or the consequences shall be dire." How the guy could say lines like that with a straight face was beyond him.

"Um, what glamour? I don't even know what a glamour is, to be honest." Which was partially true. Hermione had crammed a rough approximation of what a glamour was - faerie illusion magic, generally disrupted by contact, took a lot of power - but he had a sneaking suspicion that it was different here. Different world, different rules; seemed reasonable enough to him.

"Lies merely annoy me, creature: remove your illusions at once," He seemed to be about two seconds away from drawing his suddenly appearing sword and charging. Which, not  _great_ , but if he wasn't whipping out fireballs yet, it could be worse.

"Um, I'm not wearing any." A steadily tapping finger persuaded him to elaborate. "Really, I'm not! I'm terrible with that sort of thing - I've always been more of a practical sort of guy - and I don't even know what illusion you could be referring to!"

The guy seemed to believe him. Kinda. Okay, he looked less like he wanted to skewer him, but he'd take what he could get. He unbent enough to stop tapping on the sword, anyways. "Your presence does not match your appearance, fiend, and I would have honesty from those in my tomb."

Which- yeah, he was a bit surprised by, too. This guy was a . . . semi-dead eternal guardian to his own tomb? Surely he could get someone else to do it so he could enjoy whatever came next.

"Oh. I'm, uh, sorry? I don't know what I can do about that - I'm not wearing an illusion that I know about, I swear, and I'd probably notice something like that eventually - but I didn't mean to, uh, disrespect you. Really."  _Really, really. I had no idea you were still kicking, for one thing, and a bit of respect to anything that says 'fuck you' to death is always a good plan._

The being eyes him for a moment, nods, and turns on his heel. "Your words are honest, and your heart is true. You may return to my resting place in peace, vessel."

_Vessel? The fuck, and-_ "How did you know I had magic, um, sir?" _Way to sound like an awkward teenager again, Harry. New universe, same old you: British polite and still getting into trouble absolutely everywhere._

The being kept walking. "To those who can See, vessel, the magic you hold is barely contained by your skin."

_God, I wish Hermione was here_. "So, uh, do you have any tips on how to . . . contain it a bit better? 'Cause I'd quite like to be not recognised on the street for it, if possible."

He gets the feeling that the being is incredulous. If his life wasn't naturally this weird, he'd be right there with him. "You are filled with magic, vessel; unless you know of a way to ultimately sever your connection to the arcane power, you would be as able to change that as a glass would the water it contains."

"Then-" Okay, no, not happening. He was not going to start begging a probably-dead Italian guy who was likely heavily into religion (he has a tomb in Italy? Gotta be religious as hell) to teach him something. Worst comes to the worst, he apparates out of whatever situation he was in and just buggers off to the middle of nowhere to where no one noticed or cared about the random English guy who was living there. New Zealand, maybe. "I thank you for your assistance, guardian,"  _What little of it you gave me, you trigger-happy prick._ "Do you have any recommendations for me, for the future?"  _Like hell if he's just going to let his first real interaction slip through his fingers._

"The sigils, vessel."

And that is all the prick says while walking back to his tomb. Harry isn't that surprised; annoyed, frustrated, but not that surprised.

Still: at least he has a proper starting point now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long to get out; have been trying to figure out what I want to do with this.  
> In the end, I've gone for my old stand by - write shit, and then try and have a semblance of a plot.
> 
> So, yeah, this is going to be as ramshackle as all my work.
> 
> That being said - enjoy!

Italy was out. Spain was out. He was just going to go the whole hog and say that  _Europe_ was out.

There was magic here. And that magic clearly had a community involved in it. A community that may well police magic and its use. And a community that might take offence at his use of magic and decide to track him down to express their feelings. In person. Violently.

He wasn't keen for that to happen.

So, yeah - Europe was out.

Which made things trickier.

Because as much as he had done and the amount of stuff he knew, he could never master another language than English. His brain just didn't think that way. He had always said that magic itself was its own language, to which Hermione had sniffed and Ron had done that thing universal to blokes where they say nothing but still manage to communicate 'I agree with you, but can't in front of the missus'.

So. That left him with, roughly, Australia, Canada, or the USA. He could go for somewhere smaller, but the whole point of this was to blend in with the crowds. Which wouldn't happen in a little place like, say, New Zealand. One spell there among the sheep and he'd be collared before he could Apparate a foot.

He wasn't keen on America. He was British, through and through, and they were . . . American. (Ugh.) They were loud, and crass, and so very . . . annoying and dramatic. He wouldn't be able to blend in there as anything other than a tourist, and those numbers were bound to be limited.

Canada was more or less out as well. As a former British colony, it would probably take him. But they were practically all bilingual, which he definitely wasn't, and it was a little too close to Europe for his liking.

Which left Australia. And he had to admit: he was looking forwards to the opportunity to be too  _hot_ for once. Seven years in Scotland and a lifetime in Britain meant he was well used to the cold. He whinged about it, sure, but grudgingly accepted it as part and parcel of being a Brit in Britain.

But Australia . . . They got weather of up to  _forty degrees celsius._ Their winter days had a minimum of of  _fifteen degrees_ \- well, depending on where you were. Closer to the equator or not altered it. And he wasn't going to go completely crazy and move to the Northern Territories. For one, he would probably be burned to a crisp on arrival. He was going to have to adapt, _slowly_ , to the temperature difference. For another, that blending in thing required people to do it. He couldn't 'blend in' with a bunch of rocks. But the main centres on south and east of the country? _Millions_ living in cities that were only hours apart. You could get lost there and never be found.

So that was the plan: get his arse to Australia ASAP and hopefully avoid being put in this world's version of Azkaban. From there, figure out what the fuck that . . . guardian/golem had meant about his being a 'vessel' and what the hell else was different about this place that would fuck him over.

Which meant transportation. Which as a country on its' own continent and surrounded entirely by sea, meant either a boat or a plane at least part of the way. Neither of these appealed to him in the least.

As much as he loved flying, planes were little metal boxes crammed full of screaming babies, sick people, and armrest hogs. And he _didn't know_ how they worked. Which was such a wizard thing, but he  _knew_ how a broom worked, and he knew how a Hippogriff flew, and he even knew how flying a dragon felt. And for all of those he was in control and more or less understood why they were able to take to the skies complete with passenger. But for planes, he wasn't in control, he could do absolutely bugger all if something went wrong, and he didn't have the knowledge to understand how they got into the sky laden down with so many people and stuff.

He hated them.

. . .

He hated them _nearly_ as much as he hated boats.

Because boats were _so boring_ and took _so long_. They could take _weeks_ to get from one place to another, and all the while you're stuck on board with the same people doing the same things day in and day out. The one good thing he could say about planes was that they put all of their terrible experience into one solid period of boredom, panic, and annoyance, whereas boats (cruises,  _ugh_ ) stretched it out into days if not _weeks_ of being stuck in a specific area without a lot to do.

(Ron would say he was turning into the next coming of his Aunt Muriel - "Never satisfied by anything, and moaning about everything there is. Be careful mate, or we'll have to set that godson of yours on you!")

(He missed them all so, so much.)

So he had decided to get to Australia as quickly and safely (he had been listening to Hermione for long enough that something was bound to sink in) as he could via plane.

Next goal: figure out how to get on said plane when I don't have a legal passport or enough money for a ticket.

This was why he always charged in headfirst rather then planned things: it took too long and stressed him out too much.

Unfortunately, a blind charge wasn't going to help him this time. So he was stuck with the planning and the headache that it was.

Joy oh joy.

* * *

_Confundus, invisibility cloak, featherlight charm, and his own bottomless bag._

That was the grand sum of his plan to illegally enter a country.

He liked it. It satisfied his inner-Hermione's need to plan, as well as playing to his own strengths of winging it. (Also, it was much harder to screw it up than having something elaborate and detail-orientated.)

'Course, that was only when he got away from Italy a bit.

What? You pick up a few things over the years, especially when you're on the run from an evil madman who would happily dance in your violently-spilled blood if given the chance.

Which, in this case, was that taking the direct route was a stupid thing. If he did multiple stops, then he was more likely to lose any possible tail he'd have.

So he was going to make his way by foot (or by wheel) in a south-east ish direction.

Got him out of Europe, got him closer to his destination, screwed up anyone tracking him, and gave him a bit more time to both a) calm the fuck down and get his head on straight, b) figure out how fucked he was with magic, and c) come up with the sort of plan that meant Hermione wouldn't want to hit him.

Multi-tasking isn't just for women. (Harry automatically ducked when he thought that, half expecting a hand to swoop out of nowhere to whack him one.)

If he was a muggle, he'd be a bit wary about it. He was a skinny white guy on his own, wearing glasses and probably looked liked an easy target to most people.

He wasn't.

He really, _really_ wasn't.

Even without the magic - which happened sometimes, if his wand for whatever reason wasn't available or he'd gotten disarmed or it was muggles and there was the whole 'Statue of Secrecy' thing - he was more than some pansy that'd curl up crying after the first punch. After his childhood with darling Diddums, he'd learnt a few things.

And the war had brought them crashing back to the fore, and ingrained them permanently into him.

_You do whatever it takes to survive._

His morals were fairly solid, but the majority of them would go out the window without the faintest regret if it was a life or death situation. Stealing? Killing? Torture? If he had to, Harry would do it. Not without hesitation or qualms, but he would grit his teeth and do whatever he had to do.

Survival trumped all.

He'd properly regret it afterwards when he had the opportunity - but first he had to  _have_ the opportunity, to have that time and ability to regret and repent.

* * *

Hitch-hiking goes . . . alright.

(Alight, if he hadn't had magic he'd have been dead within a week of setting off - but if he hadn't had magic he wouldn't be in the situation in the first place, so  _bleh._ )

The whole 'English-only' thing is a bitch and a half to deal with. Sure, half of the people he meets speak some English . . . but it's about fifty words apiece that they learnt from listening to American television, so it's both completely useless in the real world and even harder to comprehend since they're trying to do an American accent on top of their own accent (and they also have difficulties with his own British-accented English, which just isn't fair. Queen's English trumps, y'know?).

He's shit at Legilimancy, always has been - but you don't have to be a mind-reader to know when the shifty looking people are talking about you, particularly when you hear the sound of strongly opinionated negotiations (with knives, because what else would you use?), get talked about with shifty looks and in undertones, and have had the sole English-speaker loudly strike up a conversation purely about his friends/family and, y'know, when he last saw them and will next be seeing them.

( _Ron_ would have spotted what was going on, and he was shit at muggle interactions. Wizards and witches, he could be a bit oblivious, and he was brilliant at strategy for any assaults or fights that they could plan for. But put him with muggles and he just had  _no clue._ It was just so foreign and weird to him that he didn't know if he was being mocked or if they were genuine and so he just came across as a complete moron. God, he missed them.)

So he ditched that lot as soon as he could.

From a Mad-Eye point of view, he doesn't need them. He could, theoretically, apparate by line of sight the entire way to China, use his tent to sleep in, and his magic to gather ingredients (either through foraging/summoning or through the version that's less likely to get him killed - either from poisonous mushroom or irate farmer - just steal from shops).

He could . . . but he's not Mad-Eye.

That would be the paranoid thing to do. It would be the most logical thing to do, if one excluded all human feelings from the equation. It would be the most efficient thing to do.

It would not be the Harry way of doing something, and it wouldn't help him at all. For one thing, all this muggle-ing gave him time to get used to this world, to learn about the differences in a place where it could just be brushed off as his being a 'foreigner'. For another, it gave him time to start wrapping his head around his new reality.

The reality without his friends ( _Ron, Hermione, Luna, Neville, Ginny-_ ).

Without his family ( _Teddy, Molly, Andromeda-_ ).

Yeah, he was still adjusting. Frankly, he thought he'd never get used to it. He just . . . missed them so, so much.

And it gave him time to plot, to plan, to figure things out.

It was three months well spent.

(Especially that time when they were  _sure_ he was asleep and thought that- well, it let him know that his offensive magical abilities worked fine here, and that if there was something like the Trace here, it wasn't affecting him, long may it last.)

And so, by the time he arrived at the south coast of China - windswept, wearing dirty clothes, reddened skin - he knew what he was going to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi cliffhanger! Don't you love me? ;)


End file.
